I sat Riley down on a Thursday night. I didn't tell her I'd recorded her. I told her I knew. I said the word "Harlowe." I watched her face drain of color so fast it looked like someone pulling a curtain. She didn't deny it. That's what broke me. She just dropped the coffee mug she was holding — it shattered on the kitchen tile — and she slid down the cabinet until she was sitting on the floor with her face in her hands, saying "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry" over and over again. I sat down on the floor next to her. I held her. I didn't know yet what I was going to do. But in the moment, looking at the woman I loved sobbing on our kitchen floor, the only thing I felt was that same awful feeling I'd had two weeks earlier in AutoZone: I knew I was crossing something I wouldn't be able to uncross. I told her we could fix it. I said I'd help her. I told her I'd go to the first Gamblers Anonymous meeting with her. She cried and said okay. And then, three nights later, I came home and her half of the closet was empty.